


An Echinops Abacus

by yeaka



Series: Eye of a Prize [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-16 19:10:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7281127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lindir’s brought to Imladris, a refuge for unwanted omegas, where Elrond’s happy to receive him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Visit

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, or The Silmarillion or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.
> 
> A/N: I kinda like this setting idea, so I might do other spinoffs of this setting with other pairings if it works out, idk... I do know the **rating will increase in later chapters.** More tags and characters to come.

It’s never a surprise anymore when Thranduil arrives at the gates, personally overseeing the transfer. He’ll act as though it’s something greater—his mere presence a gift and his party a grand delegation, blessing Imladris with their arrival. Then he’ll dismount with the usual haughty greeting, and Elrond will have to pretend he doesn’t see Thranduil’s eyes wander after the omegas who guide his elk away.

The rest of the servants flitter off as the two lords ascend the steps and wind off through the gardens, some elves doubtless here to visit friends and others to view Imladris’ greatest resource. Thranduil tends to see this as a reward to those that serve him well—the run of a valley filled with well cared for omegas—but it always irks Elrond to know that there are wolves among his sheep, in this case only looking: giving false hope where they won’t claim. They would lose Thranduil’s favour to choose one of the many rejects that Elrond oversees—omegas deemed by others to be undesirable or damaged. Thranduil’s gaze lingers over each one they pass, but Elrond knows that observation will be the limit of Thranduil’s attention. Though many of Elrond’s flock will hope for such a regal and attractive alpha, he comes just for the show. 

He keeps Elrond moving as they talk, idly catching up on one another’s lands, until Elrond pierces through the pleasantries to ask, “And to what do I owe this visit?”

The corners of Thranduil’s mouth lift up, as though he was only waiting for Elrond to ask. “I have brought you another unsuitable omega for your... collection,” he drawls, ignoring Elrond’s frown at the wording. “As he stands no hope of attracting a mate in my lands, it seemed the humane thing to do to at least place him among others of his kind—it is a sad thing to know that one has citizens doomed to eternal loneliness.”

Elrond has always been of the opinion that no one is guaranteed that fate, no matter how different their society has deemed them. But he’s also fairly certain that Imladris, refuge that it’s become, offers the best comfort in the meantime. He does his best to treat all his people well, and while many ruling alphas send their outcast omegas here, other alphas often come to see what diamonds they’ll find in the rough. Hopefully that will happen to whomever the Woodland Realm’s condemned now.

When Thranduil receives no response to his announcement, he gestures Elrond back towards the path and concedes, “I will take you to him now. ...But then I expect a proper celebration for my arrival and some wine.”

Elrond follows his guest with the familiar weary sigh.

* * *

Elrond isn’t sure what he was expecting, but he finds a note of surprise in his voice when he concludes, “He is lovely.”

“You think so?” Thranduil muses, his head minutely tipping to the side. They stand in seclusion by the fountain, the offered omega across the gardens with Tauriel at his side. She stands next to him like a royal guard, while he sits on a stone bench with his head lowered. He makes no effort towards her, and there are no other elves that come to say goodbye. Thranduil gives him a new once-over but still reports to Elrond, “I think him rather plain.”

Plain is, perhaps, a fitting word. He has fair skin, long, brown hair not so unlike Elrond’s, a lithe body and soft face, but Elrond sees an attractiveness beyond the simple features. As Elrond knows better than to argue with Thranduil over inconsequential opinions, he waits in silence for Thranduil to continue.

“Perhaps it truly is best for him, then, to be in a place of lower standards. Compared to most of my citizens, he is nothing much, but of course, that is not why I brought him here.”

In Thranduil’s pause, Elrond asks, “Are you going to tell me his name?”

Something in Thranduil’s expression says he hadn’t thought of it, but now he says first, “Lindir, I believe. I am unsure of where his path lies, exactly—he is not an adept rider, nor any good with any weapons we could offer, nor does he go into the forest as most do—you will never find him at the fire with friends. As far as I understand, he has _no_ friends, nor an interest in anyone, not even his king.” Thranduil says this last bit with a certain tightness, as though it’s incomprehensible that someone could _not_ be attracted to him. “I am told he keeps clean quarters, and this is all the good I can say of him.”

Elrond nods to show he’s taken it in, although the assessment doesn’t tell him much. He sees nothing wrong with a lack of social interest or battle skills, and cleanliness is something. The level of cleanliness must be exemplary to make it onto Thranduil’s radar. As the two lords watch, a third elf passes the bench, pauses to talk to Tauriel, and doesn’t so much as acknowledge Lindir. Lindir doesn’t look at the other elf either. Thranduil lets out a troubled sigh as though this scene is a tragedy. Elrond tells him, “Thank you for bringing him here.”

“Of course,” Thranduil returns, before abruptly walking across Elrond’s path and gesturing for Elrond to follow. “Now, let us drink.”

* * *

The banquet Thranduil insists upon is a small affair, though he loudly begrudges that Elrond is not better organized for more. Elrond holds back from explaining for the umpteenth time that his home, unlike Thranduil’s, is for rest and recovery. Thranduil has his own servants bring him as much wine as he wishes, and while he refills his second glass, Elrond takes Erestor to the side and asks that his omegas are being brought their own dinner—Elrond usually prefers to sit with them. Thranduil, of course, prefers a more high-class reception, as he would put it, and even sends the captain of his guards, despite her alpha status, to eat with the others. Once, Elrond tries to ask Thranduil more of the omega he brought—in the past, Thranduil has usually had far more to say. As little as he might know his individual citizens, he does care for them, and he’s quick to opinion. But tonight, Thranduil waves it off and speaks of other things—“How is that raven-haired beauty with the emerald eyes faring? And you must tell me if you ever found a partner for that gritty blond with the dwarfish features...”

* * *

Lindir doesn’t attend the departure of his king, though many other omegas come to see Thranduil go. He pauses on his elk to smile winningly at his growing crowd, a few of his own riders hiding smug looks at getting to leave with him. Elrond bids his guests farewell, and then Thranduil is riding off like a storm, streaking across the bridge and up through the mountains with both grace and speed. Erestor lets out a visible sigh of relief when Thranduil’s party is gone from view, and Glorfindel turns to shoo the gallery back to their rooms for the night. All of Elrond’s staff have duties to attend, but moments like this, Elrond wishes he had at least one more, an assistant closer to his side with no conflicting duties, so that they could keep track of his new arrivals whilst he’s busy playing host.

For now, Elrond searches on his own, though it isn’t particularly difficult. He finds Lindir in the first courtyard he comes to, perched delicately on the edge of the same bench he occupied earlier. With Tauriel gone, he’s left alone. His face only lifts when Elrond’s right in front of him, pausing in wait.

Lindir looks up at Elrond with big, wide eyes, pink lips slightly parted in surprise, then quickly doubles over in a seated bow, murmuring by way of greeting, “My lord.” Somehow, such an animated reaction wasn’t what Elrond was expecting. It’s vaguely... cute, made more so by the tips of Lindir’s pointed ears flushing a light rose.

“Elrond,” Elrond supplies, on the off chance that he doesn’t know. Lindir nods slightly to imply that he did, which saves Elrond the trouble of explaining Imladris’ purpose—if Lindir will have heard of the lord of it, he’ll have heard of the place itself. Because it’s odd for Lindir to not have moved from this spot, Elrond checks, “You were greeted and brought to dinner, I hope?”

“Yes, my lord,” Lindir answers, still bent down with his gaze lowered. He doesn’t elaborate on whom it was that guided him, though Elrond would expect it of Erestor, and if not, surely any passing omegas that saw a new face would invite Lindir along. At least, most would. Elrond knows more than one that would be happy to let their “competition” starve.

Elrond would take Lindir to eat now, but as that’s been taken care of, Elrond offers, “Allow me to show you to your new rooms.”

Lindir looks up then, cheeks gently stained, and Elrond can guess why—his former lord wouldn’t have personally shown him about. But Elrond is no king, and this is a very different place for Lindir to get used to. He reaches out his hand, and Lindir looks down at it with a mixture of surprise and trepidation. But he ultimately slips his hand into Elrond’s, and Elrond squeezes reassuringly around Lindir’s slender fingers. Lindir shivers. Elrond can feel a pleasant jolt at the touch, a budding warmth that comes from contact with a fitting omega. Why Thranduil deemed Lindir unworthy, Elrond’s already questioning.

He uses the light grip to tug Lindir fluidly from the bunch, and Lindir obediently rises to stand beside him, hand slipping out of Elrond’s as though frightened to presume for too long. Elrond takes note of that—it’s almost unheard of, but not impossible, for an omega to not like being touched. It’s the same for one that doesn’t _want_ an alpha, which Elrond will do his best to accommodate. There are many other things that can make a life fulfilling than just a romantic partner.

The lanterns have already been lit inside, though the stars still slip through the open awnings of the first hall they come to. Elrond guides Lindir along at a slow pace, allowing for looks around—most omegas want to take in everything they can of their new surroundings. Lindir looks mostly at Elrond, until Elrond looks back at him, and then he’ll quickly look away, eyeing his own feet more than anything. Elrond still takes his time. “You are welcome anywhere in my home,” he promises, pausing at the bend to start up the wooden stairs. “Doubtless it will seem large at first, but it will seem far less so with time. You are the newest guest by some odd forty years, so anyone you pass should be able to help you if you become lost at any point. I would hope that any would aid you as best they could, though Erestor would be the highest of my staff and thus the most helpful. You may, of course, come to me anytime if you should have need of anything, and I will do my best to provide for you as I can.”

Lindir looks wide-eyed at this, and again, when Elrond meets his gaze, he lowers it and hurriedly replies, “Thank you, my lord. I will try to be as little of a burden to you as possible.”

They stop outside a pair of carved doors, and Elrond uses the opportunity to halt them, so he can turn to Lindir and insist, “You are no burden. This is what my home is for, what I enjoy doing.” To lighten the mood, Elrond tries adding, “...And know that no matter what mistakes you feel you will make, I have had far more troublesome omegas to contend with.” Lindir only blushes hotter at this, and the silence convinces Elrond of the conclusion he’d already drawn; Lindir will not be a difficult guest.

When Elrond opens the doors to Lindir’s new quarters, Lindir’s steps falter, and now he looks around with awe. There’s a short balcony amid columns carved like tree-trunks across from them, a large, plush bed, a desk with new parchment, a quill, and an inkpot atop it, a dresser that Lindir’s clothes will have already been brought up to fill, and a door to an attached washroom. Lindir steps forward to draw his hand across one of the ornate bedposts, then glances back and bows to splutter another, “Th-thank you, my lord.”

“You are most welcome.” Elrond dips his head in return and asks, “Before I retire for the night, is there anything you wish for? Other furniture, perhaps? Certain books? More food...?”

Lindir hurriedly shakes his head. “No, this is... this is wonderful, thank you.”

Elrond finds a smile coming onto his face. Thus far, he finds Lindir’s shyness, if anything, endearing. “In that case, I wish you a pleasant night, Lindir. I sincerely hope you enjoy your stay here.”

Lindir opens his mouth, looking as though he’s about to comment, perhaps to say that he wishes the same, but instead he only says, “Thank you. Good night, my lord.” He bows once again, and Elrond makes a mental note to check that Lindir learns to be less formal as he acclimates. Elrond’s never asked for excessive show for his title.

He leaves Lindir standing in the middle of the room, still looking about. In the morning, Elrond will have to check in again, make sure he’s comfortable and well fed, and perhaps give him a proper tour, if he then shows any interest. For now, Elrond finds his own quarters and hopes his latest guest has only lovely dreams.


	2. Coverage

For the most part, Elrond’s mornings are peaceful. His internal clock works well enough, and on the rare occasion he sleeps in, Erestor will come and see that he’s ready for the day. This is one of those rarer times when Elrond rises before even his own standard, likely due to the warm breath ghosting across his face.

He recognizes the smell of most of his omegas, and the fact that he’s quite sure he fell asleep in his own bed narrows down the pool—few would be bold enough to sneak into his chambers. Sure enough, when he lets his eyes squint open, dark ones meet him in return, jet-black strands of smooth hair tumbling sideways over alabaster skin. Maeglin, curled tight up to Elrond’s side but thankfully overtop of the blankets, purrs, “Good morning.”

There is no ‘my lord,’ though Maeglin often employs it. This morning, he dons a lazy grin and feigns a stretch, shuffling all the closer with it, until their noses are almost touching. Voice utterly saccharine, he asks, “Did you have pleasant dreams?”

Elrond doesn’t bother answering. Instead, he stifles his yawn and rolls onto his back so he can rise without Maeglin in his face. Maeglin doesn’t move, just eyes Elrond as he rubs the sleep out of his eyes and finger-combs back his hair. When Elrond’s clearly fully awake, Maeglin tosses one long arm across his lap and coos, “You had a busy day yesterday, did you not? Meeting King Thranduil’s delegation, and... new company, I hear?”

Of course. Maeglin’s nonchalant attitude doesn’t fool Elrond for a second, and he purposely doesn’t pursue the subject of Lindir, instead asking airily, “Are you having any trouble with your own quarters, Maeglin?”

“Only the usual loneliness,” Maeglin answers, as though he isn’t perfectly capable of seducing others to join him. “The new omega must be content with his—I heard you showed him to them yourself. Not that it would be so wholly surprising for you to take an interest, but I confess when I saw him across the table for last night’s dinner, I wasn’t quite sure what would merit your attention so...”

Again, Elrond doesn’t rise to the bait. As he slips out the other side of his bed and heads for his wardrobe, he says with an air of finality, “If you wish to know more of our latest guest, you are welcome to befriend him yourself.” As he gathers the new day’s robes in his arm, he can feel Maeglin’s scowl at his back. When he heads for the washroom, Maeglin darts out of bed to follow, but Elrond closes the door just in time. He hears the irritated sigh on the other side and can’t help a small smile. 

By the time he’s dressed and reemerged, Maeglin has given up and left.

* * *

Erestor has better things to do than chase after every omega that oversleeps, but Elrond still draws him aside to ask at the morning meal, “Have you seen Lindir?”

“No, I have not since last evening,” Erestor replies, addressing his words to Elrond but staring across the hall to where Glorfindel is trying to make Voronwë leave the swan that’s been tailing him for two days wait outside the dining hall. Erestor murmurs a dissatisfied, “Unsanitary,” under his breath and shakes his head, then turns back to Elrond a little flustered and picks up, “I am sorry, my lord—should I fetch him?”

“I will do it,” Elrond decides, though he again wishes he had others for this. As small as Imladris is compared to other lands, it’s large enough to merit more staff than he has. As soon as he’s ended the conversation, Erestor heads off to gently guide Voronwë—and a healthy plate of food with bread crumbs on the side for his pseudo-pet—back outside.

Having no knowledge of Lindir’s preferences, Elrond opts for a selection of different items on his plate for Lindir. He takes a salad for himself, but serves a small portion to make room for fruit and fresh bread for Lindir. He doesn’t have quite enough hands to manage more, so the water brought regularly to everyone’s quarters will have to do. 

He passes only two others on his way to Lindir’s quarters, and Maglor offers to help carry a tray, but Mithrellas doesn’t, though she does shout a sorry after him when she runs by so fast his plates nearly fall over. When Elrond reaches the correct hall, he has to maneuver both dishes into one arm to make room to knock. 

A moment of silence on the other side, and then Elrond hears a soft voice call, “Come in.”

It would’ve been better if Lindir had opened the doors, but Elrond manages to back inside. He expects to find Lindir still in bed, but instead, Lindir is already up and fully dressed, hair loose about his shoulders as he bends over the floor, kneeling in a small puddle. He has a cloth in one hand a bucket near the other, and glances up with a surprised look when he sees who it is.

Elrond first sets the plates down on Lindir’s desk, then shuts the door again and comes to sit beside Lindir, just so he can take hold of Lindir’s shoulders and gently guide him up. Lindir turns slightly pink in his grasp, and Elrond keeps his tone soothing as he explains, “You do not have to do that. I assure you, these quarters were given to you clean, and we have staff that will periodically clean them again.”

“I...” Lindir murmurs, eyeing Elrond’s hands as they fall away, the two of them now standing. “I just... I am sorry, I did not know what to do...”

“Anything you like, which I doubt includes chores.”

Lindir doesn’t look so sure. He looks a tad lost, and Elrond puts an arm around his waist, not quite touching, to guide him towards the bed, the only place with room for two to sit. Lindir goes where he’s bid and climbs onto the high mattress, turning to sit cross-legged and smooth out his robes. Elrond was unsure whether it would’ve been appropriate to stay for his own meal, but now he thinks his first guess right—Lindir doesn’t yet seem comfortable in his surroundings, and Elrond, the master of them and a healer, is best equipped to fix that. He serves them both and sets into his salad with an air of ease, while Lindir blushes and hesitates to pick up his fork. He mumbles, “Thank you, my lord,” before eating, and then pushes chunks of fruit around his plate more than actually eats. 

They eat in a relative silence for a dozen minutes or so, and then some minstrel picks up a tune outside, a very faint remnant ghosting in from the balcony. Lindir looks up at this, though the music is fair away and too quiet to truly appreciate. Elrond tells him anyway, “We have many minstrels here. We have curtains to provide if you would prefer silence.”

But Lindir hurriedly says, “No,” then, “Thank you, my lord,” and resumes eating. 

Elrond takes the opportunity anyway to elaborate more on his home. “We have all sorts here, really. You may have heard otherwise in your own lands, but this is a place of rest and joy. This is not a realm of troubled omegas but of unique elves who may find pleasure in other things than a mate, though it is fairly common for alphas and even betas to come through in search of a partner—residence here is not a guarantee of loneliness. You are, of course, most welcome to befriend other omegas, and as they come from an assortment of times and lands, it is quite possible you will find a kindred soul here where there were none in your native lands. Imladris, I would hope, has something for everyone.”

Lindir doesn’t look particularly hopeful of anything. He nods politely at Elrond’s words and begins to carve up his first slice of bread into strangely symmetrical slices. 

As he lifts the first to his mouth, Elrond says, “You must have questions, Lindir. Please, voice them to me.”

Lindir pops the bread slice into his mouth and looks at Elrond. He chews, swallows, hesitates, and averts his gaze when he asks, “Are you... are you this available to every... ah, I am sorry, my lord, I do not truly have any questions...”

That was question enough, and Elrond assures him, “Yes. This is my home, and the care of everyone in it is my personal concern. I meant my words last night; if you should ever have need of anything, I would like you to come to me.”

Lindir looks back at him with a sort of awe that almost makes Elrond’s cheeks heat. Almost. He clearly has many centuries on Lindir, has many years of experience in this, but Lindir is indeed a very unique creature. He reminds Elrond distantly of a butterfly, attractive in all circumstance but too delicate to come too near to. 

He eats a few more slices of his perfectly diced bread, then haltingly asks, “Am I... would it be appropriate to... to braid my hair?” Elrond lifts an eyebrow in response, and Lindir spots it sideways and quickly adds, “It is only that I know some lands use them as a mark of... of rank... and I... I have not earned any particular right, but I have seen such beautiful styles here, and I... if I can...”

“Dwarves,” Elrond fills in, as Lindir’s words putter out. “Many Dwarven cultures consider certain hairstyles marks of certain accomplishments, but that is not the case in Imladris. Here, you may style and dress yourself however you wish, provided you do dress yourself outside of your quarters.” He’d meant the last part as something of a joke to lift Lindir’s stiffness, but Lindir only looks momentarily horrified at the prospect of anyone _not_ dressing in public. He would make a poor dwarf indeed.

He makes an excellent elf. Elrond finishes his salad in the interim. Usually, he would leave here; he should, in fact, oversee the cleanup now that Thranduil’s ever-excitable party has left. For whatever reason, he finds himself with the want to stay, and asks as Lindir finishes the last of his bread, “Would you permit me to braid your hair?”

Lindir looks at Elrond with his fork still in his mouth, turns a brilliant shade of scarlet, and nods quite emphatically for someone so quiet.

There are two yellow ribbons atop Lindir’s nightstand, likely set out for this morning if Lindir either found someone to ask or worked up the courage to style his hair anyway. Elrond takes one and puts his empty plate down in its absence, then settles behind Lindir on the bed. He sweeps all of Lindir’s chocolate hair over his trim shoulders, the soft waves shimmering in the morning light with a thick, healthy sheen. This will be an easy one. As Elrond runs his hands through the silken stream, he asks, “Is there any particular style you would like?”

“What... whatever you think is best, my lord.”

There is no ‘best’ with this fair creature—he would look lovely with anything, Elrond thinks, but for now, he separates three thin rows on either side of the head. He holds one still against his palm while he braids the other side, keeping it thin and tight, insisting, “Please tell me if I pull your hair too much.”

“Oh, no,” Lindir insists right back, “I like having my—” but he stops there, and Elrond doesn’t have to see his face to know it’s blushing. Elrond can guess the rest of the sentence and restrains himself from an affectionate chuckle. Many omegas like to have alphas pull their hair, and Elrond can’t help but wonder if that’s part of why it’s always been the style to keep it long. Maeglin alone will go from furious to lustful with a single yank of his braid, though Elrond would hope no one would treat Lindir as roughly as Maeglin prefers. Lindir is perfectly still while Elrond completes one side, then pins that one down against his other palm and sets to braiding the other side.

When the sounds of Lindir’s eating have completely stopped, Elrond reaches around him to take the empty plate and stack it on the nightstand. Lindir murmurs, “Thank you, my lord.” Elrond continues his work. 

He’s nearly finished and about to fasten the two together in the middle when Lindir twists slightly, glancing over his shoulder. He asks in a distinctly shy voice, “If I may ask, my lord... please forgive me if this is inappropriate... but... which one is yours?”

“Mine?” Elrond repeats, his hands stilling. He’s unsure of what Lindir means, and that must show.

“Your omega...”

“Ah.” Elrond resumes tying the ribbon around the two braids and admits, “I have yet to claim one.”

Surprise comes over Lindir’s face. “But you are so very handsome, and you seem so kind...” He stops again, quickly closing his mouth, but not soon enough for Elrond to stifle a fond smile. He hasn’t been called handsome in a long time and has far more attractive residents in his home. It’s pleasant to know he can still seem so to greater beauties. 

“Thank you, Lindir. But I am only an old, weary caretaker. You will find more suitable alphas both in my staff and in visitors here.” He ties the final bow with a hint of both pride and disappointment—Lindir’s hair is as lovely as the rest of him, but this does end Elrond’s excuse for staying. 

Of course, there is that tour he mentioned, and thinking of Lindir alone in his room, mopping the floors, Elrond suggests, “Would you like to accompany me on a walk?”

Lindir smiles and nods.

* * *

The puddle of sudsy water must be cleaned up, and then Lindir returns the supplies to his washroom, and Elrond ushers him out the door. It’s a gorgeous morning, the air crisp and light. Lindir is as subdued as ever and matches Elrond’s pace, following wherever Elrond goes.

Elrond is sure to show him the most important places—the dining hall, the kitchens, the library. He shows Lindir his own quarters, reiterating to find him if there is any problem, and then his study. Before they can make it to the gardens, they glide along the highest level, and Elrond points to things of note in the distance. Lindir politely listens to everything, then comes to a sudden halt, and Elrond stops to accommodate.

In the courtyard below, Maglor’s taken up a bench with his gilded harp in his arms, and he sings an ancient tale from times long before Lindir’s birth. Lindir still drifts closer to the railing, hands curling around it, strands of stray hair tumbling over his shoulders as he leans forward. Elrond watches Lindir more than Maglor, having heard all of Maglor’s songs over the years and memorized every one, and murmurs at the end of a verse, “He is very beautiful.” He’s also of the first age, older still than Elrond, though he looks younger despite all his troubles, but Elrond would like Lindir to have someone to play with and would encourage any company. Apparently, Lindir showed no such interest in anyone within the Woodland Realm.

But Lindir startles and says through a heavy blush, “Oh, I was watching the harp.”

Elrond finds himself smiling and nods. “He is also very talented.” And good-hearted, and wise, whatever his past mistakes. But Lindir doesn’t look back, only closes his eyes and takes in the music. Elrond waits with him, enjoying, as always, Maglor’s song.

But Glorfindel emerges from between the pillars before that song has ended. Lindir’s eyes open, taking in the glowing alpha before him, but then avert quickly and return to watching Maglor over the balcony. It only buttresses Thranduil’s assessment; Glorfindel is as worthy an alpha as they come, and Lindir pays him no interest at all.

Glorfindel only spares a single glance to Lindir, then tells Elrond, “A letter has arrived from the Lady Arwen. It waits in your study. And I would ask for your permission to reorganize the guards again—some of mine fare better than others at rounding up Thranduil’s drunken guests after his visits.”

As usual, Elrond tells him, “You have full discretion of the guards.” He trusts Glorfindel implicitly. The other matter, unfortunately, does merit his immediate attention. As Glorfindel leaves again, Elrond tells his companion, “I wish you a good day, Lindir. Maglor tends to be long in his sessions, and he will likely still be there if you wish to go down and speak with him.”

Lindir bites his lip and nods, then bends into an unnecessary half bow and says, “Thank you, my lord.”

Elrond leaves with the sad feeling that Lindir won’t go down to meet anyone at all.

* * *

Elrond’s just changed into his night robes when a knock lands on his door. When he calls, “Come in,” he’s surprised to see Maeglin slip inside and shut the door behind him—Maeglin doesn’t often knock. Like all of his calculated moves, it tells Elrond something: he’s come to play nice. 

He strolls across the floor with his hair loosely billowing behind him and crawls right onto Elrond’s bed, asking alluringly, “Will you braid my hair for me, Lord Elrond?”

Two visits in one day are noteworthy. But Elrond fetches a spare ribbon and sets in behind Maeglin nonetheless. As he splits Maeglin’s dark locks into three separate parts, he calmly asks, “Have I been neglecting you, Maeglin?”

“You were not there at breakfast,” Maeglin notes, looking back with a slight pout. “...Were you with the new omega again?”

It’s only been one day, and already Elrond has cause to stifle a knowing grin and ask, “Are you jealous that I was?” 

He expects Maeglin to deny it, but instead Maeglin quips, “He has gotten all of your attention of late.”

“And yet, I woke up next to you.”

“Because I took charge, as one often must with you.”

Here Elrond allows a small chuckle and can’t help but ask, “Do you wish to be mine, Maeglin?”

Maeglin flushes a pale pink, which looks far more out of place on him than Lindir. It’s obvious that he’s holding back a grimace at the mere suggestion. He says quite firmly, “No. ...But you claim to be a healer, and you should dote on all of us.” This makes Elrond lift a brow. Omegas don’t usually presume to tell him his duty, nor do all his residents require “doting.” 

To Maeglin, he answers, “You have already seen fit to weasel into more of my time than most, and your presence is duly noted. You need not worry about seducing the power of this place to your side.”

Maeglin’s face twists into a scowl cuter than he’d probably like to admit, and he looks back around, though Elrond is sure he’s still scheming on more convincing words. He’s a conniving little thing, though taller than many with a commanding presence, but he’ll make a good omega for someone, someday. ...Perhaps even a dwarf that would like extra help in the mine and appreciate his skill at the forge. Assuming, of course, that Maeglin could reign in his pride for it. When the braid’s finished, Maeglin turns and places a hand on Elrond’s thigh, leaning in with lowered lashes and slightly parted lips: sensual and enthralling. 

Elrond’s never been easy to snare with sex alone. He moves away from Maeglin’s touch and climbs off the bed, offering out a hand. Maeglin takes it with another annoyed look but lets himself be shooed towards the door.

In the hallway outside, they both freeze. Lindir stands at the end, studiously dusting off an old suit of armour with a rag. Maeglin wrinkles his nose at Lindir but leaves without a word, and Lindir doesn’t so much as turn to look at him.

Elrond, however, he must spot in his peripherals, and glances over with a flushed, caught look. When he offers no explanation, Elrond asks, “What are you doing, Lindir?”

“C... cleaning, my lord...”

Elrond isn’t sure whether the scene is sad or cute. He gently takes the cloth from Lindir’s hand and insists, “You are not here for this.”

Lindir nods, turns half a step as though to leave, then stops and mumbles, “But I... I do wish to be useful...” He sucks in a deep breath, then looks at Elrond properly and asks, “Perhaps... I could join the staff somehow?”

Elrond usually prefers omegas to enjoy their stay at first, to relax and learn to come more into themselves than their former homes may have let them. But Lindir’s eyes are pleading, and Elrond’s unable to resist the odd request. He grants, “Very well. I will speak to Erestor in the morning of where a place can be found for you. Now... will you sleep?”

Lindir lights up and bows out another, “Thank you, my lord.” He’s still smiling when he rises, then gives another half bow, then finally turns and heads the way Maeglin went, leaving Elrond holding a dusty rag and all too aware of how shiny the armour now is in the place Lindir rubbed it.

As he first concluded, Elrond finds Lindir to be a thoroughly lovely creature. Even if he’s naturally withdrawn, it won’t be difficult, Elrond thinks, to find many who could love him.


	3. Insubstantial

Lindir misses the next two breakfasts. For the second time, Elrond brings him food, but must eat down with the others due to a momentary feud between Amdír and Nellas that Elrond feels the need to oversee. On the third day, Elrond isn’t particularly surprised it’s happened again. He asks, following Erestor out as he brings a plate to Voronwë—“I suppose Lindir was not here earlier.” 

“No,” Erestor answers, bending down to where Voronwë’s perched on the step.

Voronwë murmurs, “Thank you,” and settles the dish into his lap. The swan nestled at his side darts its head over to nab a particularly large breadcrumb in its beak, which Voronwë seems to have no trouble with. Elrond can practically see Erestor’s temple throb and wonders if perhaps he would be a good friend to Lindir. They would, at least, have an expectation of sanitation in common. Elrond’s greater concern is that an unusual—and seemingly difficult—pet might put an alpha off, but swans are beautiful enough, and Voronwë is, above all things, patient.

He gently pats the swan’s small head and eats with the other, while Elrond and Erestor head back into the hall. Finished, for now, with that ongoing debacle, Erestor turns to Elrond and suggests, “Perhaps Lindir is doing this on purpose, so that we must serve him personally.”

Clearly, Erestor has not had a chance to really speak to Lindir. Elrond rules that out immediately and answers, “He is not Maeglin.” He’s far, far shyer, or perhaps preoccupied with dust, and so Elrond serves two plates again.

Erestor offers, “I will do that, my lord.”

But Elrond waves a hand and insists, “I do not mind.” Though in truth, he has no reason for it—he is, after all, not accustomed to simple delivery tasks, nor could he do so for all of his omegas. ...Perhaps just this one.

Lindir is, as expected, in his quarters, in the open bathroom, a rag washing back and forth over the mirror. When he sees Elrond coming in it, he turns and splutters, “Oh goodness, I am so sorry, my lord—I completely forgot!”

“To eat?” Elrond asks, unable to keep a hint of teasing out of his voice. Lindir only colours deeper.

But he squeezes out the rag over the sink, folds it, and leaves it on the counter. He’s skinny enough that Elrond would hope he’ll eat more than this once he’s settled. Yet Elrond’s not surprised when Lindir doesn’t look at the plates, just Elrond himself. 

Elrond guides Lindir back into the bedroom again, presuming to take a seat on the bed. If this is to become a regular occurrence, he will have to fetch Lindir more chairs, but as it is, this is a better option than the floor. Lindir comes to join him, take the plate offered, and mumble, “I... I apologize, my lord. Thank you for bringing this to me. ...But you do not have to eat with me...”

“It would be my pleasure,” Elrond says, and he finds he truly means it. Lindir opens his mouth, but then closes it, and doesn’t try to shoo Elrond out again. Considering that progress, Elrond gently adds, “I would, however, hope that you do come down to join everyone else for breakfast tomorrow. Mealtimes are the easiest place to make friends.”

Lindir bows his head and promises, “I will, my lord. This will not happen again.”

“I hope so, though I do hope you also know that you will not be penalized if it does.”

Lindir looks like he believes it but is still abashed. While he eats his first couple bites, Elrond asks, “Did you have a pleasant time yesterday?”

Lindir swallows, and it’s Elrond’s turn to eat while Lindir hesitates with words. It takes him a moment to explain, “I... went onto the balcony and heard... Maglor, I believe? Play.” And, apparently, nothing else, because he goes back to eating whilst looking doggedly forward.

It’s a start, though a slow one. “I apologize. I have not yet managed to set time with Erestor aside for you. He always attends breakfast, however. If you come tomorrow, you should be able to discuss with him your addition to the staff. That way there will be no need to spend the duration of your day cleaning your already pristine chambers.”

Lindir’s blush gives away that he was doing exactly that. He murmurs, as usual, “Thank you, my lord.”

Elrond presses around his food, “Did you enjoy Maglor’s songs?”

“Yes. He is... very skilled. And I...” Lindir pauses, rolling the single blueberry left around his plate. “I have an affinity for music.”

Elrond appreciates the confession, however small. Finishing his own dish, he concludes, “Good. Then part of my last evening was well-spent.”

Lindir looks over, fair features confused. “My lord?”

Smiling, Elrond waits for Lindir to eat that final fruit, then takes Lindir’s plate from his careful hands and stacks them, not bothering to answer. They’re left on the nightstand to be dealt with at a later time. For now, before he’s inevitably interrupted for larger duties, Elrond lifts off the bed and extends a hand, asking, “Will you join me for another walk?”

Lindir looks all too happy to oblige. Thranduil’s assessment was certainly correct; Lindir is an introvert, yet he seems quite comfortable in Elrond’s presence, swept back out into the hallway, perhaps just soothed by the proximity of an alpha. Elrond leads, suspecting Lindir would not move forward otherwise, and takes Lindir on a slow, scenic route to a higher chamber, a square room reached only by one set of wooden stairs with pillars that hold up the roof and let in the stray branches of swaying trees. In the center of the room is a long table, lined with chairs, often used for lesser conferences or, on the rare occasion, games. Now it holds a smallish, golden harp, carved in the Imladris style—Lindir doesn’t seem to have come with one of the Woodland ones. Elrond had considered a Lothlórien make, but that would take considerably longer to send for. As they approach the table, Elrond can see the awe wash over Lindir’s face.

“For you,” Elrond announces, picking up the delicate instrument to draw it closer to the edge, to Lindir’s waiting hands. “Consider it a welcome gift.”

Lindir looks up to Elrond with wide, bright eyes, lips parted in utter shock. He looks, in that pure, open moment, like something out of song, so very beautiful. He doesn’t seem to have words, though he tries, and ultimately looks back to the harp, daring to brush one cautious finger along the gleaming threads, so thin that they almost disappear. He swallows once, almost a gulp, and looks back to Elrond with eyes that shimmer with the barest hint of tears. He breathes, “It is... _thank you_ , my lord.” 

But then the spell is broken, and Lindir shakes his head, stepping back to insists, “I cannot—it would not be right; I am unworthy, I am so sorry, my lord, I cannot accept—”

“You can,” Elrond tells him, soft but firm. “And you will.” Elrond gestures to the harp again. It was not particularly difficult to obtain—in fact, it was already in production, and Elrond simply oversaw the finishing details and had Maglor test the sound. Daeron was all too happy to release it to Elrond, his price, as usual, being only praise.

For this precious moment, Elrond would happily feed Daeron’s pride. Lindir looks at the harp as though he’s never seen anything more magnificent in his life. He takes a tentative step closer, hands landing beside it but not daring to touch, and tells Elrond in almost a whisper, “You are too good to me, my lord Elrond.” The way Lindir breathes his name makes Elrond’s chest glow with warmth. “How can I ever repay you?”

“With a song, perhaps,” Elrond suggests. “Assuming of course, that you already know how to play. If you do not and merely hold an interest, I can easily arrange for lessons.”

Somehow, Elrond isn’t surprised when Lindir mumbles, “No, no, I... I can play, I just... I will not be half so talented as Maglor.”

In truth, few are. The maker of Lindir’s new harp, perhaps, could surpass him, but no one else Elrond’s ever known. Aloud, he says, “I appreciate the differences of each player. I would be honoured if you would bless my home with your own art.”

Lindir nods. He draws the harp up into his hands, nearly trembling, not to play at first but simply to look, to touch, to take it in. Few places can boast as fine craftsmanship as Imladris in this area, though Elrond himself has little knowledge of the instrument. Lindir cradles it to his chest like a precious loved one, then looks at Elrond pleadingly, the way an omega does to an alpha when they wish for guidance.

So Elrond gestures towards a plush sofa against the back wall, or what there is of a wall before the pillars rise, from the waist-up. Elrond moves to take one side of the sofa, Lindir gingerly taking the other. Under the canopy of shadows from the roof and the branches outside, Lindir begins to play.

His tune is quiet, at first, as timid as the rest of him, but the flow is captivating even then, the melody something new, a chiming, lilting thing that Elrond’s heard nothing like. It’s distinctly _Elven_ , free of mortal influence, and Lindir doesn’t bring words to it, though Lindir imagines his calm voice would make for marvelous singing. There are a few natural pauses in the rhythm, and each time one falls, Lindir looks to Elrond, but Elrond is careful not to interrupt, and so Lindir keeps playing. Elrond wears a natural smile: pure enjoyment. It’s soothing, relaxing. Lindir’s whole being seems to fit so _well_ with the world Elrond’s made for himself that it’s vaguely astonishing. 

Lindir plays for a long time, his confidence slow but steadily building, the chords ringing louder for it. When the melody is distinctly _strong_ , full of such devotion, both peace and passion, Elrond can’t help but release a wistful sigh. He adjusts his seat, turning all the more towards Lindir, his legs rising farther along the sofa so that their knees are almost touching. Elrond’s robes are crimson today, Lindir’s a deep blue, thick and trim-fitting. His long hair cascades down his shoulders, tow tiny braids falling to frame his face, one on either side. Occasionally, the breeze will stir his hair. In the course of Lindir’s music, his gaze rises from the floor to their seat, eventually to Elrond’s chest, then to his eyes. They hold his, Elrond entranced. Imladris is a haven for minstrels, but it’s been a long time since he’s shared a song so intimate. 

And then that song falters, and Lindir lowers the harp into his lap, fingers dying out the last notes. He leans across it, face tilting towards Elrond’s, pausing right before him, lips almost brushing. Lindir’s hand slides along Elrond’s legs, up his thigh, landing there and trembling. Elrond can feel the brush of Lindir’s tongue when Lindir licks his lips, but he can’t seem to close the distance. 

Elrond’s too shocked to do it himself. 

Lindir’s pheromones are blazing. With the distraction of the music gone, Elrond’s being fills with awareness of Lindir’s _want_ , an omega so fully consumed with desire that they can hardly help themselves. He’d thought, somehow, that Lindir was one of those who simply didn’t feel that way, didn’t want bonding, or at least not _this_ , not a kiss, not touching there, and that complete miscalculation freezes him far longer than he otherwise would. 

While Elrond is still wondering what’s happened, how this could have happened, Lindir jerks back. His face is twisted with hurt, obvious rejection, clearly misreading Elrond’s hesitation as much as Elrond misread his. Elrond pulls himself back, murmurs, “Lindir,” without knowing what he’ll say after, but Lindir’s already clutching the harp tight against his chest and rising to bow so low that his hair tumbles over to brush the floor.

“I am so sorry, my lord,” he rushes, standing straight again a moment later.

He turns and flees, Elrond’s hand lifting after him but much too late.

* * *

Lindir is, of course, much too young for him. Too sweet, perhaps, too unburdened, when Elrond is weary and has lived through such trying times. He’s scarred in several places from old wars, his body withered the way a purely Elven body wouldn’t crumble, and even without those many years, he was never as handsome as many of his peers. His time has come and gone. He can explain that, he thinks, to Lindir, and now that he knows Lindir does have the want of a mate, Elrond is certain—thought it oddly irks him to think of it—that they can find Lindir someone else to love him.

But that explanation requires finding Lindir first, and so Elrond sets out after him, wasting the better part of the afternoon searching the only places he would expect Lindir to be. He’s largely unsuccessful, and when he spots Maglor and Maedhros in one of the gardens, he decides that will have to do.

Today, Maglor isn’t playing, merely sitting with his brother and engaging in idle musings, him on a bench and Maedhros sprawled out in the grass, back to another bench across the small clearing. His red hair is cropped closer to his head than any other elf Elrond’s known, but then, Maedhros has gone through far more, his caramel skin matted with old scars and burns that will never quite heal. It is, perhaps, why Imladris is best for him, but beyond the outward “damage,” he’s a truly remarkable creature and will, Elrond is sure, one day find an alpha worthy of his glory. Maglor is, perhaps, more patient, and seems content to wait and rest after all the other torment of their lives. They both hush when he reaches them, looking up to greet him with nods of their heads. 

Elrond returns the gesture and asks, “I don’t suppose either of you have seen Lindir today, have you?”

“The new omega?” Maglor asks, one hand reaching up to twist a single strand of raven hair. “I have not.”

“He seems very young,” Maedhros notes, which is likely all anyone else knows of Lindir. The off-handed comment only serves to remind Elrond of why they would be such a poor fit for one another, and it makes his stomach drop in a wholly undignified way.

He forces himself to push past it and suggest, “He is a budding minstrel. I think, if he were given the opportunity, he would benefit from knowing you.”

“You mean Maglor, I assume,” Maedhros snorts. He’s always been more one for swordplay than music, and Lindir would, Elrond guesses, be terrible with a sword. 

“I will look out for him,” Maglor says, as though it’s no trouble at all. Despite being even older than Lindir, he is a true _elf_ , untouched by all his years and worries, and his tone makes it sound as if the age gap is no trouble at all.

But then, he’s only thinking of kinship. And Elrond, despite his best effort, can’t help the wriggling thought of _more_.

He crushes those thoughts down. He’s a healer, the lord of this place. He isn’t meant to impose himself over any one omega, especially not one so new, however well he seems to fit. Perhaps if Lindir were to come down to breakfast occasionally, he would see all these other handsome faces and fall for someone better suited to him. 

But then, there would have been more alphas in the Woodland Realm, plenty for him to see. And yet, in all Thranduil’s splendor, found no one of any interest at all.

“I hear something,” Maglor suddenly interjects, glancing back towards the white side of the building not far from them. “...On the second balcony, I think. A sad song, though it is quiet. I do not recognize the style of the minstrel.”

That leaves only one option. Elrond tells him, “Thank you. I am once more impressed with your sensitive hearing.” Maglor smiles indulgently, used to his gifts. Elrond bows his head to Maedhros and makes his leave, the two brothers easily resuming their early-evening chat. They must’ve already eaten. Elrond considers fetching Lindir lunch but ultimately doesn’t stop for it—his stomach is giving him trouble, and he’s not sure he could eat, and he doesn’t think Lindir would do so without his guidance.

* * *

Lindir is just leaving the balcony, harp still cradled against him, when Elrond finds him, glad now that he didn’t waste time with the kitchens. Lindir looks instantly at his shoes, more withdrawn than ever, and Elrond, acutely aware of Voronwë sneaking about the hall behind him—likely trying to smuggle the swan into his room without Erestor’s knowledge—steps to drape an arm around Lindir’s waist and guide him to the nearest empty suite where they can speak privately. 

Lindir obediently follows, and when the door is shut behind him, Lindir drifts to sit on the unmade bed of the guest room, as has somehow become their custom. Elrond doesn’t mean to sit with him, not this time, but standing over Lindir makes him feel too much like a teacher with a scolded student, so he does, ultimately, take a seat next to Lindir. Lindir’s aura is a pool of dejection, his eyes unable to meet Elrond’s, all the colour gone from him. It’s an aching sight, after the beauty of the morning, and Lindir murmurs before Elrond can, “I am sorry, my lord. I was very... inappropriate. I should not... I did not mean to. I will behave from this moment on, I promise. I know my place.”

“Your place should be with the alpha you choose,” Elrond smoothly interjects, “if that is what you wish.” Lindir winces but doesn’t look over. With a sigh and the acceptance that this is how their conversation will be, Elrond goes on, “I apologize, dear Lindir. You did not overstep, and you did not deserve to be spurned so. It is not that you were inappropriate, but simply that I am not a good fit for you. I am responsible now for your well being, and I would be a poor lord indeed if I took advantage of a young, vulnerable omega under my care.”

Finally, Lindir looks over at him, but only to splutter, “You would not—it would not be taking advantage—”

Elrond lifts a hand to signal quiet, and Lindir immediately closes his mouth. Elrond continues, “I would be. I am far, far older than you, by more than an age. I am haggard, beyond what you can know, and I am not new to a bond. I did not lie to you when I told you that I had taken none of the omegas in Imladris to be my mate, but there was a time when I had a beta from another land. She bore me three children, each of which is older than you, and though we parted and she sailed West, I am still changed by it. You are a truly wonderful being, Lindir. And you deserve someone equally wonderful in return.” In the pause, Lindir looks only hurt, but doesn’t try to counter Elrond’s words—perhaps it’s clear that Elrond isn’t finished. It’s all true, but the last part, the finality of it, is difficult to say. “Many alphas come through my gates. Any one of them would be lucky to have you, and I am sure many will desire you. You will find one that is appropriate for you.”

But Lindir might not like any of them enough for it to matter. He slowly nods, but it’s obvious that he’s doing so only for Elrond’s sake, and it’s a hollow motion, his face heartbroken. It’s always difficult to tell the heart what is and isn’t appropriate. More so, it’s hard for Elrond to understand and accept why Lindir would want him in the first place. 

Then Lindir, so pitifully that it makes Elrond’s chest clench, holds out the harp with both hands.

Elrond presses it back against him and softly reassures, “That is yours to keep. It is my gift to you, and it will remain so. You have done no wrong.”

Lindir doesn’t seem to believe it. But after a long, heavy moment, he finally asks, “May I... may I still work for you, my... my lord?”

“Yes,” Elrond promises, “if that will make you happy.”

Lindir dons a faint smile. Perhaps it will do what it can. 

A terrible idea occurs to Elrond. One he should quell the instant it rises. But instead, the one position he knows of, the one he most needs, spills from his mouth: “I am in need of a personal assistant.”

Lindir’s head snaps up. There’s such a strong glimmer of _hope_ in his eyes that Elrond doesn’t have the heart to take it back, to voice what he knows is a setup for failure. He needs Lindir to become close to _others_ , and yet Lindir says to Elrond alone, “Please, my lord. I would be so delighted to be that for you.”

So Elrond nods and offers Lindir a hand to take him back out into their open home, resisting the urge to peck his forehead, hold him tight, and promise him that things will be better.


	4. Consequences

Lindir finally attends breakfast on his own, though he looks no more pleased for it. He takes the seat amongst the largest clump of empty chairs and sits rigidly at attention. Maglor politely takes a seat next to him, which causes Lindir to look over with a tiny blush that Maglor answers in a small smile. Maedhros takes Lindir’s other side with an equally friendly look. From his place at the head table, Elrond can see Maglor begin a short conversation that gets lost in the rest of the hall’s chatter. Lindir says, perhaps, two words, and then the discussion quickly becomes between Maglor and Maedhros only, carried right over Lindir’s head. Lindir stiffly continues eating.

“At least he came,” Erestor says at Elrond’s side. Apparently, Elrond’s gaze is that obvious. Once, Lindir looks up at him, meets Elrond’s gentle smile, then looks swiftly back down at his plate. “Perhaps I should approach him now and discuss employment.”

“I have offered him a place as my personal assistant,” Elrond replies, fully knowing that he’s made a grave mistake, though Erestor won’t know it.

Erestor simply nods. “That is wise—you have need of one. I will catch him when he leaves and instruct him on what will be needed.”

“Thank you.”

From Elrond’s other side, Glorfindel suggests, “If you wish him something to do, I could teach him in the guard. Elladan and Elrohir should be returning tonight, and with their help, I will have time to train new recruits.”

Before Elrond can politely decline, Erestor answers for him, “I highly doubt he would be suitable if he cannot even attend breakfast on time.”

“He is new,” Glorfindel returns. “Perhaps he was simply shy.”

“A shy elf has no business with a weapon.”

“We are not all meant to be bookworms, Erestor.”

“Nor daredevil guards.”

“I should never have told you that story.”

“No, you should never hav—” But Erestor cuts off, turning abruptly to eye Voronwë as he strolls into the hall, devoid of animal company. He is, however, sopping wet, spilling little pools behind him as he takes a seat between Maeglin and Nellas. With a heavy sigh, Erestor sighs, “We will never find him an alpha.”

“Then be thankful our newest omega has arrived,” Glorfindel chuckles. “During King Thranduil’s stay, Tauriel informed me that their current offering is even more hopeless. Voronwë will therefore seem easy by comparison.” Here Elrond glances aside at him, but Glorfindel has gone back to eating and seems to think nothing out of the ordinary of the statement.

Elrond declines to tell them that just yesterday, Lindir made a plea for an alpha that very much desired him. 

Across the hall, Elrond spies Lindir rising form his chair. Maglor turns and says something, perhaps offering to follow, but Lindir leaves alone. Maedhros shifts into the empty chair to sit closer to his brother. On his way out, Lindir gives a look to Voronwë’s puddles that would make Erestor proud.

* * *

Elrond isn’t given the chance to first instruct Lindir, nor does he have to: Lindir is brought to him in the evening, Erestor by his side, reiterating the priority ranking of letters from their different places. Lindir looks thoroughly surprised to hear that Elrond occasionally receives word from dwarves, and when Erestor mentions halflings, Lindir appears to have never even heard of them at all.

With a few final reminders, Erestor leaves Lindir in Elrond’s study, Elrond already seated at his desk with a quill in his hand. Círdan is juggling too many alphas and not enough omegas, and Elrond is inclined to recommend Voronwë, his resident mariner, though is disinclined to invite Círdan to come here—he doesn’t need Maglor finding an opportunity to go back to sea. 

For that first night, Lindir reorganizes Elrond’s entire study, pausing before each task to ask permission. Elrond’s answer is always the same: “You may, but it is not required.”

“I wish to, my lord,” Lindir always returns, before doing a superb job of righting the messes that have piled up for decades.

When Lindir opens the armoire in the back to find a shoulder-high stack of parchment, his horrified intake of breath is audible. Elrond turns around in his desk, explaining sympathetically, “That is Mithrandir’s compilation. It is likely best to leave it be; his order will make sense to him, however little it does to us.” Lindir nods and quickly shuts the armoire again, not asking who ‘Mithrandir’ is. He looks as though he thinks Mithrandir to be the worst kind of alpha he could possibly have, and the thought of Lindir fretting over Mithrandir’s dilapidated collection or pipes and herbs brings a smile to Elrond’s lips. He notices that Lindir pointedly doesn’t look at the armoire for the rest of the evening. 

When the night is finished, and Lindir is still seated on the floor amidst a pile of language books he’s still sorting, Elrond offers to walk him back to his quarters. Lindir happily comes to his side, and retiring together feels entirely too right.

The whole thing feels entirely too right.

At Lindir’s door, Elrond has to fight the urge to peck his forehead or cheek or even lips. Lindir murmurs a demure, “Good night, my lord.” And then Elrond is alone again, now with the painfully poignant knowledge that he doesn’t have to be.

He almost wishes Maeglin would come to his quarters and offer release with the understanding that there will be no bond. He almost considers going to Maglor or even Maedhros. But Elrond sleeps alone.

* * *

For the first week, Lindir is a diligent, faithful assistant who attends every breakfast, stands behind him at every conference, seamlessly organizes his schedule, has his robes cleaned, overseas the tidying of his room, sorts his office and letters, and trails him about Imladris like a particularly light shadow. He never shows strain under Elrond’s tasks—which Elrond never explicitly orders but seem to pile up nonetheless—and only grows stressed over the trouble of others. Once, Nellas pushes Daeron into the river, and his muddy footprints of return seem to trouble Lindir more than the shouting match that follows. Elladan returns from a hunting trip to drop a sword coated in orc blood atop Elrond’s desk while Elrond is out and Lindir is cleaning, and it is, quite possibly, the absolute worst first impression he could make. When Elrond returns and introduces his son, Lindir goes from fretting over the mess to bowing all the way to the floor. 

When he leaves, hurrying the sword off to a more appropriate place, Elladan chirps, “He is... cute. Odd, but cute.” Elrond nods and wonders if it would be best to elaborate, to offer Elladan—a far more fitting alpha—Lindir’s company.

But he finds that he can’t, and selfishly keeps the knowledge of Lindir’s true beauty for himself. He has never been prone to jealousy. He’s never wished to keep treasures from his sons. Yet he’s silently pleased when Lindir later looks at Elladan no differently than he looks at anyone else.

Elrohir is an exact twin, and when Lindir first meets him, Lindir mistakes him for Elladan, and Elrohir, trouble that he is, goes along with it until Elrond comes and makes the correction. Lindir blushes hotly, confessing to feeling like a fool when they return to the privacy of Elrond’s library. Elrond tells him, “Many have made that mistake.” But Lindir still looks at Elrohir no differently than he looks at Elladan.

Lindir only seems to have eyes for Elrond no matter whom else he meets, no matter how great. He is impressed with Maglor’s skill but seems to have little to say beyond that. He is impressed with Daeron’s craft but seems unaffected by Daeron himself. He catches Mithrellas bathing in the fountain and subsequently seems scandalized whenever he’s around her. When he learns Maedhros is fond of dwarves, Lindir seems to forget all other common ground. He is, as Elrond first suspected, not bitterly, fearfully, nor sadly withdrawn, but simply uninterested in the more ordinary things and only concerned with those things of his choosing. Elrond is, apparently, the only living being who fits into that.

Elrond, against all his better judgment, is increasingly warmed by it. There are rare times when, after they have parted for the night, Elrond will hear a quiet song outside his balcony, sung in Lindir’s voice, and these are the nights he sleeps best of all.

* * *

Lindir is respectful. He never makes another move. He seems to content himself with being Elrond’s assistant, and they have a steady, comfortable routine by the second week. Fifteen days since Lindir’s arrival, a sparrow brings word from Thranduil, boasting a surplus of Dorwinion wine and suggesting—as he often does—that Aragorn come to fetch a few barrels from Legolas’ company. 

Elrond writes back that Lindir is doing well, knowing full well that Thranduil will take a moment to even remember who Lindir is. In the Woodland Realm, Lindir was an omega broken by his difference. In Imladris, he is a comfortable fit.

Over Elrond’s desk, Lindir is tucking a reference manual into the highest shelf. He stands on the tips of his toes, and when he falls back into place, he tucks a single strand of chestnut hair behind his pointed ear. His emerald robes fasten high up his neck, the corseted back giving his trim figure the illusion of subtle curves. He looks at Elrond’s bookshelf, fastidiously organized, and dons a brief, satisfied smile.

And Elrond sees it and knows that he has doomed himself. There is no one more beautiful in all of Middle Earth. He doubts, even, that Valinor could hold a creature that more fits at his side. The sun sets to show off the stars, pristine waters trickling down the mountains and Maglor’s song twinkling about the night, but none of that perfection has ever made Elrond feel the way Lindir’s simple company does. 

It feels strange to walk Lindir back to his quarters, because in Elrond’s heart, he knows that Lindir should come, instead, to _his_.

* * *

At breakfast, Lindir comes to standing by Elrond’s side when his own meal is finished. Elrond tends to take longer, often discussing matters with Erestor or Glorfindel or even either of his sons, Arwen still with her grandparents in Lothlórien. 

Once, Maeglin comes to sit tight by Elrond’s side. Elrond treats him the same as ever—pleasant, indulgent, but never leading on, and Maeglin drapes himself seductively across Elrond anyway and whispers lewd things in Elrond’s ear. Elrond is unaffected by all of it and idly speaks of Thráin’s son, who has been spotted not far from Imladris, and is a virile alpha that could benefit from an omega that would aid his craft. Maeglin scowls deeply and retreats his hand from Elrond’s thigh, shooting a misplaced, annoyed look over his shoulder at Lindir, as though Lindir were the one to toss a dwarf at him. 

When breakfast is done and Maeglin has wandered off to try his luck with Glorfindel, Lindir is strangely quiet.

Lindir remains so for the rest of the day, though Elrond offhandedly, nonsensically comments, “Maeglin is not for me.”

He’s said Lindir isn’t either. 

When they find themselves outside Lindir’s door at night, Lindir timidly invites Elrond in to hear a song, but Elrond has done enough damage to the bearer of his heart, and he declines.

* * *

And then one morning, Lindir doesn’t come to breakfast. The seat he takes, always the same one, is unoccupied. Elrond waits patiently throughout his meal, but Lindir never shows, either for his own food or to stand at Elrond’s side, and neither Erestor nor Glorfindel notice the absence. He thinks, perhaps, that Lindir has started early and waits for him at his study, but it remains empty. There’s only one place left.

Elrond’s halfway down the corridor that leads to Lindir’s rooms when he hears it—a sharp, piercing scream, soaked in pain, the voice familiar. Elrond’s heart stops in his chest, and he darts forward instantly, nearly barreling into the door. He wrenches it open so hard that it bangs off the wall and swings shut again behind him. His steps falter before the unmade bed.

Lindir is curled up atop it, his hair a mess and his robes disheveled, yanked open at the collar, showing a sliver of flesh straight down to his navel, hairless and flushed an angry pink, the indents of pebbled nipples straining against the fabric. His eyes are squeezed shut, fists tight in the covers, another horrid cry twisting out of his throat.

Maeglin sits beside him, wearing a silver dressing gown and nothing else, his hands raised but not quite touching Lindir. He looks at Elrond with a look of utter _guilt_ , the most Elrond’s ever seen from him, and it barely halts the anger that’s rising in Elrond’s chest. Maeglin blurts, “I didn’t mean to! I-I just wanted to play—I had no idea he was so pent up and would go straight into heat over a little touching! We barely kissed, I—”

But that’s all Elrond can take, and he’s seethes, tone ice cold, “Leave.”

Maeglin slams his mouth shut and nods. He slips from the bed and hurries out, body language uncharacteristically ashamed, though Elrond believes his story—heats are unpredictable and can’t truly be another’s _fault_. Yet the thought of Maeglin _touching_ Lindir, pure, sweet Lindir, makes Elrond boil. He takes in a deep breath, only glad he came in time, and takes Maeglin’s place in the rumpled sheets. 

Lindir looks up at Elrond and _moans_ , filthy and whimpering, then curls in on himself, hiding his face in one hand, then another. Elrond doesn’t dare to touch him but tries to send out the soothing presence of an alpha _there for him_. The shudders and cries that wrack Lindir’s body seem to simmer down a fraction, no longer reaching out into the hall, but Elrond can see the situation is still grave—Lindir, indeed, is clearly in a full-fledged heat. Elrond gently tells him, “It will all be well, Lindir. We will find an alpha that will do, at least for this—”

“ _No_ ,” Lindir whines, one hand slipping away. He heaves forward, and Elrond catches him by the shoulders. Lindir trembles violently in his grasp, whimpering, “No, Elrond, please, you—I only want you—”

“One of my sons,” Elrond suggests. “They are not far from your age, and they are available.”

But Lindir shakes his head, as Elrond knew he would. Lindir squirms closer in Elrond’s arms, crawls into his lap, and Elrond doesn’t have the heart to push him away, not like this. Lindir parts his supple legs around Elrond’s body, his robes sliding up, his weight pleasant atop Elrond’s thighs. He wraps his arms around Elrond’s shoulders and looks straight into Elrond’s eyes, his own so thickly dilated they’re almost entirely black. “ _Please_ ,” he begs, and his voice is tight with it, rasping desperately. “Please, my lord, _please_ , I will be good for you, I promise, so good, you do not have to keep me, do not have to take me alone, but I _live for you_ , my lord Elrond, _please_...”

Elrond would have no other. He cradles Lindir in his lap and still hesitates, though he can feel Lindir’s helpless pheromones getting to him. It’s difficult to resist aiding an omega, especially one so wanton, and one he _wants_ so very much. He’s never been so tempted, and yet Lindir compounds it, grinds himself into Elrond’s body with little sobs of, “Sorry,” like he doesn’t want to push but can’t contain himself. His need is palpable. He presses his face into Elrond’s, inhales deeply, holds his lips against Elrond’s cheek, nuzzles into Elrond’s jaw, mewls and writhes and clings to Elrond’s robes. He keeps hovering like he wants to kiss, _needs one_ , but then will break and simply rub his face against Elrond’s instead, not daring to take what an alpha won’t give him. The scent of him, the sight, the burn of his skin, is overwhelming. 

He presses his mouth to Elrond’s ear and pleads, “Please, please, please...” into a steady mantra that blends into a rush of repetitive syllables Elrond can’t pick apart. One side of his robes begins to slip down his shoulder with his constant squirming, revealing more creamy skin that Elrond wants to taste.

He’s failed in his duties, he knows that. But there is no time—Lindir’s need is too great. He can’t call for another and would not force another on Lindir even if he could. Elrond nudges Lindir’s face over with his nose and benevolently presses his lips to Lindir’s softer ones.

Instantly, they’re kissing, Lindir surging so hard against him that it would knock another omega over. Elrond sits strong, but Lindir _moans_ into it, body grinding in one full wave and hands running wild across Elrond’s back, tongue flicking hopefully against Elrond’s lips. Elrond opens to let it in and chastely meets Lindir’s with his own. Lindir shudders and half closes his mouth, fully opens it again, tilts and repeats, kissing Elrond nonstop in a messy, needy stream. It fills Elrond with Lindir’s want, and Elrond wants Lindir in return so much that it’s difficult to take. It feels so _right_ to do this, to hold Lindir. Every part of Lindir pleases him. The pressure is intoxicating, but eventually he turns his face away, escaping Lindir’s mouth, and Lindir sobs a ragged whine and grinds his tented crotch against Elrond’s all the harder. 

Lindir’s robes are the ones he must have worn to bed, easy to get on and off, and Elrond feels only minimal guilt as he plucks at the sash. It slides right off, the rest tumbling open. Elrond uses both hands to brush the light material over Lindir’s shoulders while Lindir continues to shamelessly hump him. Lindir seems to have absolutely no trouble with being completely naked in Elrond’s lap, though he won’t pause long enough for Elrond to enjoy the view. Lindir’s skin is all the same smooth, unblemished expanse. While Elrond runs his hands up and down Lindir’s spread thighs, Lindir rubs his aching cock against Elrond’s lap and mouths at Elrond’s neck above his collar. Elrond somehow winds up asking, “How did Maeglin touch you?”

“He kissed me,” Lindir breathes, his voice unusually quick and high. “He licked my throat and opened my robes, and he pinched my nipples through my clothes...” Elrond tries to fight the surge of _jealousy_ , even over such little things—omegas lick and suck one another all the time, but _Elrond_ will be the one to fill him—but Lindir whines, “I wanted _you_ , Elrond, my lord Elrond, _oh_ , he said he would tell me what you liked, and I wanted to be beautiful for you...”

“You are,” Elrond insists. His hands slip to Lindir’s inner thighs and squeeze, eliciting a sharp cry. 

“I wanted to come to you drenched in the smell of sex,” Lindir growls suddenly, pressing his face into Elrond’s cheek again, and Elrond rewards the boldness with another squeeze. Lindir gasps, bucks forward, and breathlessly gasps, “I wanted to beg you to let me warm your cock under your desk... I would not have to be your omega; I could be your tool; I would take care of all your needs, I would kiss your feet and love you silently...”

“You are no tool,” Elrond returns. His fingers slip to Lindir’s tight balls, taut and hairless, and he fondles them while Lindir mewls and makes incoherent noises into his neck. Elrond’s second hand rises to trace Lindir’s cock, only a tad on the long side and thin, lightly curved up, pulsing hotly in his hand, spilling a bead of precum. His rear is starting to leak into Elrond’s lap, the natural juices of an aroused omega eager to fill their holes staining Elrond’s robes. Elrond wraps his fingers around it, using precum to ease the way, and Lindir cries out louder than he first did. 

He still gasps, “Do you fuck Maeglin?” Elrond shakes his head and chases Lindir for another reassuring kiss, but Lindir mumbles around it, “Maglor? You seem fond of him. Erestor— _ohhhh_ —serves you—doesn’t he? I would be yours, my lord, _Ah!_ Everything you need, any time you wished to go to them, if you would only come to me instead, I would give you _everything_ , you could do all sorts of things to me that they would not allow, I would do _anything_ for you, I would eat nothing that did not come from your hand and drink nothing that did not come from your cock, you would own my body so completely—you already have my heart—” Elrond silences him with a firmer kiss, this time sucking Lindir’s tongue into his mouth and refusing to relinquish it until Lindir’s quieted. 

With that occupied, Elrond pumps Lindir’s cock at a steady pace, enjoying the slide of it in his fingers, the warmth of it, the stiffness. He can feel the cheeks of Lindir’s plush ass twitching, but he wants to take the edge off first. He knows that Lindir will want many rounds today, and he spills himself in Elrond’s hand shortly, his cry muffled in Elrond’s mouth. He comes an ample amount of milky white to match the clear mess that spills from his rear, his thighs shimmering with it. When Lindir’s finished, he nuzzles into Elrond’s shoulders, looking dizzy, but doesn’t let go. 

“I would have only you,” Elrond assures him, over the loud sound of panting. He places a chaste kiss to Lindir’s forehead, and then Lindir mewls and kisses Elrond’s jaw, chin, right on the lips again, then scrapes blunt teeth down to his neck. Elrond lets Lindir nip at his collarbone and run straight down, until Lindir’s scooted back and has his face buried in Elrond’s lap, mouthing at the growing bulge. Lindir looks up through half-lidded eyes, face entirely flushed, and Elrond’s not sure how he’s even managed to stay dressed as long as he has.

He removes his own sash at a measured pace, but as soon as it’s loose enough, Lindir parts the bottom of Elrond’s robes himself. They still cling to Elrond’s body, but it’s open enough for Lindir to free Elrond’s cock. It juts straight out, thicker and longer than Lindir’s, thoroughly hard, and Lindir lets out the loudest moan yet at the sight of it. He presses his tongue flat along the base and drags it straight up, tracing the entire length, swirls over the top and runs back down, where he sucks one of Elrond’s heavy balls into his mouth and sucks languidly on it. 

There’s no going back now. Lindir’s body is too gorgeous, his mouth too magnificent, his face too full of adoration. He sucks on Elrond’s sac like he’s never tasted anything better and only stops to stretch his mouth wide around Elrond’s girth. His hands lift to touch it, run along it, fingers drawing over each vein, then falling to cup Elrond’s balls while he rains ticklish licks along the side. He brings his mouth back up to play with the foreskin and nuzzles into it, letting Elrond’s cock slide along his face. And to think that not so long ago, Elrond thought Lindir entirely uninterested in other’s genitals. 

The next time Lindir rises over it, he opens his mouth, and before Elrond can caution otherwise, Lindir’s dived on. His lips lock around Elrond’s dick, tongue flattened at the bottom, and Elrond gasps, hands rushing to thread in Lindir’s hair. Lindir keeps pushing down until he’s almost halfway, and then he stops, gagging and shuddering, but he schools himself still before Elrond can tell him not to do so much at once. Lindir whimpers around it, looks up at Elrond with his mouth full of cock and a slight pout on his lips, and Elrond rushes to commit the sight to memory. The feeling is unimaginable. When Lindir nuzzles down and turns his face, Elrond can see the imprint of his cock bulging against Lindir’s cheek. 

From there, Lindir pushes down, further and further, occasionally stopping to choke but still stubbornly descending, devouring Elrond until he’s to the root, his nose digging into the smattering of dark hair above Elrond’s base. The pleasure is overwhelming—Elrond can’t remember the last time he felt so much at once. Lindir stays buried and sucks happily at his mouthful, his throat tightening around the head. He seems like he could stay impaled on Elrond’s cock for an age.

But then Elrond lightly tugs his hair, and Lindir obediently rises, only to reach the tip and slam down again, then pull higher to repeat. He sets into a quick, brutal pace, fucking his mouth hard on Elrond’s cock and sucking the entire way, giving it everything he has. His pheromones are broiling to _please_. His own hips barely even move against the mattress: all he seems to want is to make Elrond happy, even in his own heat. He takes Elrond’s cock for as long as Elrond can stand.

Eventually, it’s just too much stimulation, compounded by how much Elrond wants Lindir and how rapturous Lindir looks over having his lord’s cock in his mouth. Elrond clenches his teeth and stifles a growl, bursting down Lindir’s throat with such force that Lindir’s face is pushed back, right to the head. His cheeks bulge with the first rush of it, and he quickly swallows, trying to push back down, but Elrond is a fertile alpha who hasn’t come in far too long, and he comes an inordinate amount, even for that. Lindir drinks and drinks, happily swallowing one load after another, but it comes out faster than he can manage and begins to pool along his lips, slipping out around the plug of Elrond’s cock, to drizzle down his chin. Lindir’s forced to pull off and gasp for air, Elrond’s seed spilling everywhere, and the rest of the spray catching Lindir in his pretty face. It splatters across his nose and cheeks, his eyes closing just in time. Lindir takes this with a delighted smile, until the spray has fizzled out, and even then, Lindir nuzzles into Elrond’s cock and whines, as though begging for more. 

He’s messy enough. Breathing hard, Elrond slips his hands from Lindir’s hair to wipe off his eyelids and chin. Lindir darts out before Elrond can find a cloth, quickly sucking Elrond’s fingers into his mouth and licking them clean. The rest he leaves on his face while he dives in to lick Elrond’s crotch, catching every stray glob of cum he can. 

Licking his lips obscenely, Lindir chases the taste, only giving in when there’s nothing left. On all fours, he turns around in the mattress, presses his face back to it, and lifts his ass in the air, knees spreading. His still-hard cock swings between his legs, his ass flexing, cheeks trying to spread open to show off the rosy-brown trail and the pink, puckered hole fluttering open and spilling natural lubrication. It’s a common enough pose, an omega presenting themselves to an alpha, but it takes Elrond’s breath away nonetheless. Only the drive to pleasure his omega keeps him hard despite the wondrous orgasm he just went through. He thinks he can manage to give Lindir another round. 

Lindir croons gleefully when Elrond mounts him, lining up behind him and draping over his back. “You are so perfect,” Lindir moans, and his ass wiggles against Elrond’s crotch with it. “So handsome, so caring, so good to me, my lord, _oh_ , I love how your seed tastes, I love how you feel...” Elrond puts his hands over Lindir’s, pinning them to the mattress, and Lindir dissolves into useless whines. Elrond’s only regret is that their first time wasn’t gentle lovemaking—Lindir deserves that. 

Lindir’s now in heat, and that requires harsh fucking that Elrond obliges to give. He lets his cock press against Lindir’s already opened hole, and in one swift push, he’s buried halfway, Lindir crying out in sheer ecstasy. 

Elrond knows the feeling. His head momentarily thins with it—the pressure’s _exquisite_ , Lindir is ridiculously tight, even parted as he is, and Elrond has to stop just to make sure Lindir isn’t feeling any pain, but Lindir’s clearly thrumming with pure pleasure. He bucks his ass eagerly into Elrond’s cock, taking bit by bit with messy squelching noises while Elrond presses slowly back. Lindir’s channel feels built to take him—it clutches on, lets him go further, molds around him, shudders and sucks and is impossibly soft, scorching hot and slickly wet. Even after Elrond’s balls-deep, he presses closer, tries to get in more, but it only slides Lindir up the mattress. Lindir turns his cheek to it, giving Elrond the room to kiss him on the other one. 

As Elrond pauses, adjusting to the intense pleasure, Lindir moans, “I love you, my lord, I do.” Perhaps this isn’t the best place to say it first, but it’s too late now, and Lindir gushes, “I adore you, I worship you, I love you so much I can barely look at you without my heart swelling, and _ohhh_ , you feel so good inside me—I always want you inside me, want to sit in your lap and be with you all the time...”

It’s the heat talking. He’ll calm, eventually, and return to the normal, quiet, sweet thing that Elrond’s grown to love. To this Lindir, this ravenous temptress, Elrond softly promises, “I love you equally,” and bends to kiss him on the lips. He can feel Lindir _melting_ into him. 

When the kiss is finished and Elrond can’t wait a second longer, he reaches under Lindir’s chest and hoists him up, forces Lindir to hands and knees, and then he pulls out and slams back in harsh enough that Lindir almost topples over again. Elrond steadies him with one large hand across his chest, palm digging into one pebbled nipple, the tips of Elrond’s fingers toying with the other. Lindir trembles but tries to stay up. 

Elrond is as careful with his pace as he can be, but there’s a part of him that just takes over, unleashed and uncontrollable. He tries to satisfy his lover but doesn’t want to break his precious omega, yet his desire’s grown so tumultuous that he half worries he’ll bruise Lindir’s poor rear. The other half can’t even think of it. Elrond holds Lindir against him, kisses the back of his neck and his shoulders, claws at his chest, and rams into him again and again. Lindir cries out at each thrust, body thrumming with delight. When Elrond’s nearing his next end, he reaches under Lindir to grab Lindir’s cock and starts to pump in time with the thrusts. Lindir goes absolutely wild. 

Lindir comes first, almost sooner than Elrond would like, though Elrond can’t last much longer, and the convulsing of Lindir’s ass pulls him over the edge. Lindir screams at his end, wetting Elrond’s hand again and soaking the sheets, but it’s nothing to what Elrond does to his ass. Elrond fills Lindir with another giant well of cum, far more than he should be able to give so soon, but he soaks Lindir’s insides nonetheless. He hammers it in, fucking Lindir right through his orgasm, and Lindir collapses from it, falling forward to clutch at the sheets. Elrond doesn’t stop until he’s spilled every last drop into Lindir’s tight rear and he can’t even think straight. He’s left slouching over Lindir, vaguely aware that Lindir’s still hard in his hand. 

He pulls out, dragging clinging trails of white with him, and lifts up just to stare at the damage he’s done. Lindir’s ass is a bright red, his hole gaping up and leaking, the furrowed brim twitching. Elrond has half a mind to bend down and lick it clean.

Instead, he pats Lindir’s rear and mutters, “Lie down properly.” His voice is hoarse. He moves himself to lie across the bed, head hitting the pillows. Lindir obediently crawls over him. 

But then Lindir straddles his lap instead, murmuring pathetically, “Sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry—I want you so much—you’re so wonderful, Elrond, I—” he cuts himself off in a scream as he drops down, taking the entirety of Elrond’s only half-hard cock inside himself again. Lindir puts his hands on Elrond’s stomach and squirms on it, plugging himself up and whimpering. Elrond wracks his brain for how many rounds he’ll need to finally tire Lindir’s heat out, but he knows it’s different for every omega, and Lindir will have had nothing in between to stop this from building. 

Lindir begins to fuck himself on Elrond’s cock with trembling lifts of his hips, weak but determined. He bounces up on and down with slumped shoulders and an open, panting mouth, Elrond’s cum still painting it in places. He fucks himself until Elrond’s grown hard again, pushed beyond the normal limits purely for this: to meet Lindir’s need. 

Then Elrond grabs Lindir’s slim hips and rolls them over. Lindir’s head lands in the pillows, Elrond looming over him, lowering down to smother him in a warm kiss. Lindir wraps his arms around Lindir’s back, and Elrond palms Lindir nipples and pounds into his ass to try and satiate him, but Lindir merely comes again and still clings to him, begging, “ _Elrond, please_...”

* * *

It takes the entire day for Lindir’s heat to run its course. All afternoon, Elrond takes him in different positions, tired but needing to help. Elrond tries to leave once to fetch food and take care of Lindir properly, but Lindir grabs onto him and begs him to stay, and when Elrond pulls free and makes it to the doorknob, Lindir cries, and Elrond can’t take the sound and comes back to hold him, then lay him out in the sheets and fill him again.

The sun reaches its peak outside the windows, and Lindir is drenched in sweat but still pleading to be taken, so Elrond still takes him, only leaving occasionally to the washroom to bring back water to trail over Lindir’s skin and drip into his mouth. Lindir licks and kisses and caresses every part of Elrond, while Elrond wearily promises to return the favour, another day when they can do this once instead of a dozen times.

The night falls, and still Lindir curls around Elrond’s lap and licks at his cock, then rises to climb onto him and ride him. In a slow grind, Elrond sits against the headboard, letting Lindir stuff himself as full as he needs. His body is coated in a thin layer of bodily fluids, splashed everywhere from both of them, his hair matted and wild, his nipples a raw red and his rear so very tender that it must hurt. It doesn’t stop him. He takes his fill of Elrond’s cock, his own finally halfway soft, and he tells Elrond over and over in a run-together mess, “I love you, loveyou, so much, _Elrond_ , _oh_...”

Elrond fondly strokes his hip and kisses him, but by now Lindir is too weak to return it properly and simply mewls against Elrond’s mouth. Lindir spills himself a final time with his hands pressed hard against Elrond’s chest, his thighs trembling around Elrond’s waist. He wilts into Elrond’s body and rests there, breathing hard and soaked. Elrond doesn’t have it in him to come inside Lindir another time. 

He simply lifts Lindir off, Lindir whining at the loss when he’s emptied. Elrond cradles Lindir close to him, and finally, Lindir doesn’t go in for another, just turns to snuggle up to Elrond’s body. It’s far too hot in the room but neither can let go. 

Absently stroking through Lindir’s hair, Elrond murmurs, “You are in need of a bath.”

Lindir mumbles sleepily against him, “Can I bathe in your seed?”

With a sigh, Elrond accepts that he will have to clean them up tomorrow. Tonight, he carefully lays Lindir down in bed, rearranging his hair for him and stroking it free. The blankets have been long since kicked aside, but Elrond takes a thin sheet to pull over them. As Elrond stretches out beside him, Lindir snuggles up to Elrond’s side and lightly humps his leg. It forces Elrond to gently turn Lindir around, forcing him to face the other way. Then Elrond wraps around his body to keep him there. They fit together perfectly. Lindir wriggles his ass until Elrond’s cock is nestled between his cheeks, and this seems to satisfy him. He squirms a bit, but when Elrond orders softly, “Sleep, dear Lindir,” he stills.

Eventually, Lindir falls asleep in Elrond’s arms.


	5. Settled

In the morning, Lindir oversleeps, cradled on Elrond’s arm and curled closely to his body. Elrond, though both thirsty and hungry, can’t bring himself to move. Lindir deserves the rest, and thus Elrond doesn’t dare jostle him. The morning light creeps across the floor, and Elrond uses it to watch his lover’s face, contenting himself with just enjoying that beauty.

He plays with Lindir’s hair occasionally, brushes it back and tries to finger-comb it out, sweat and seed having matted it too much, though he’s careful not to tug too harshly. Once, Lindir mewls and squirms closer, still under the veil of dreams, and so Elrond stills and does nothing but observe.

Then, finally, Lindir’s breath hitches, eyes fluttering beneath the lids. He opens his little mouth for a long, languid yawn, stretching so that his feet kick out and his knees bump into Elrond’s. He shuffles closer, grinding his face into Elrond’s chest, and inhales deeply. Elrond doubts that Lindir could smell anything else through this stench of sex that permeates the room.

Evidently, Lindir picks up on that, because a second later, he shifts back, eyes blinking open only to shut again against the light. He lifts his hand to rub at them, fingers no less messily crusted-over than the rest of him. When he opens his eyes next, they go as wide as ever, as though surprised to find that the entire night wasn’t just a dream.

More something of a fantasy. Elrond retracts the arm that lies across Lindir’s waist to trace up his side and cup his cheek, holding him in place while Elrond leans forward to kiss his forehead. Elrond can tell, through the unspoken bond that formed with their mating during a cycle of heat, that Lindir’s merely surprised, not regretful. But when Elrond pulls back again, Lindir’s fair features twist in guilt, and he mumbles hoarsely, “My lord, I... I am so _sorry_...” He stops to lick his lips, drawing Elrond’s eyes to the movement. “I am sorry. I... please, forgive me, I...”

“There is nothing to forgive.”

Lindir practically pouts. Then his gaze catches on something and flickers lower, grazing Elrond’s chest, where the sheet atop them cuts him off. Lindir’s cheeks abruptly flush, lips falling open.

When Elrond’s determined from Lindir’s face that there’s no disappointment there, he teases, “I did try to offer you a younger alpha.”

Lindir goes beet red and looks up again to splutter, “No, no! You are very handsome—I love your body—I just—oh, I am sorry, I am only surprised—overwhelmed—delighted, but oh, I am sorry, I should not be, should not have—” He cuts himself off, trailing into broken apologies, which Elrond pierces through by stroking down Lindir’s arm, enjoying the shiver it causes, and wrapping his fingers around Lindir’s delicate palm. 

He lifts Lindir’s hand to press against his chest, over where his heart beats. “I am sorry,” he starts, and it instantly silences all Lindir’s attempts, “that you had to suffer a premature heat for this to happen. But I would not change the outcome.” Lindir’s gaze is both skeptical and hopeful, fingers curling lightly as though to dig in and cling to Elrond’s body. “I denied my attraction to you out of a wish for your well being, but as it is too late now, there is no harm in admitting that I am honoured to be your alpha.”

Lindir asks quietly, “You will keep me?”

There was never any question of that. Aside from Elrond’s growing love, it seems Lindir must have an alpha to soothe him if he’s ever to enjoy any release at all. Or, perhaps, Elrond can gradually ease him away from the edge, so that he isn’t always so pent up and one kiss away from implosion. 

Elrond squeezes Lindir’s hand and promises. “I will have you for as long as you will have me.” 

Lindir looks like he might protest. Perhaps he’ll argue he’s unworthy again, like the foolishness with his harp, but he can’t seem to get the words out and instead closes his mouth, smile growing wider. He looked so cute in his sleep, but it becomes alluring now, and if Elrond weren’t thoroughly worn out from yesterday, he’d chase that pleasure with a slew of kisses.

Instead, he sighs, “Despite my reasons, I do think you have become a good fit for me. It feels very... right... to hold you. ...And I will also admit that it is a pleasant feeling to finally have my own omega in a land full of them.”

“I will behave well for you,” Lindir insists, as though there were ever any doubt. “I am so... so _glad_ that it is me you finally chose, even if the circumstances were... well...” But the reminder seems to shame him all over again, and he ignores his reddening cheeks to say, “I also must apologize for failing in my duties yesterday.”

“Omegas are granted time off in the midst of their heats,” Elrond chuckles. Then he makes the mistake of imaging Lindir puttering about his study as naked and desperate as yesterday. 

There’s a moment of enjoyable silence, wherein Elrond struggles with these fantasies and Lindir stares happily at Elrond’s body, until Lindir asks again, “...I may truly be yours...?”

Elrond answers, “You are mine,” and bends forward to brush his lips over Lindir’s. Lindir still tastes a tad salty, but he leans eagerly up to meet it, arms snaking quickly beneath Elrond’s arms to hold onto his back, drawing him closer.

The kiss is chaste, until Lindir drags it along Elrond’s cheek and moans into Elrond’s ear, “My lord, I still _want you so much_...” He spreads his legs to wrap them around Elrond’s thigh, and though his cock is soft, it drags along Elrond’s skin, Lindir shivering with a groan. This, Elrond thinks, is going to make for a very pleasant morning routine. 

Yet Lindir’s body will likely need time to heal, and he most definitely needs a wash. They both do. So Elrond resists the urge to roll on top of his new omega and grind the poor thing into the mattress.

Lindir’s just brushed a tentative kiss across Elrond’s shoulder when a knock sounds on the door. Lindir stiffens immediately, clinging to Elrond and shrinking against him. Though Elrond knows there is no danger, his protective instincts flare. He uses the blanket to cover as much of them as possible before he calls, unable to detangle from Lindir and answer the door himself, “Come in.”

To Elrond’s surprise, it’s Maeglin that pushes it open. He backs inside with a large tray in his hands, two plates of breakfast and two glasses of juice atop it. He spares the bed one glance, then looks bitterly away, his face twisted in irritation. He brings the tray to the nightstand nonetheless, which shows he must feel guilty. He looks down at Elrond’s face only to say, “Are you well, my lord? I told Erestor that you had... business... to attend to.”

Elrond can feel Lindir’s arms tightening around him. It’s probably a possessive gesture, but Lindir should in no way be threatened by Maeglin’s presence. Elrond is only pleased by it because it proves what he always knew—there is good in Maeglin, no matter how difficult he seems and the mistakes of his past. Imladris and time have a way of healing most wounds.

Though still rather tired and thoroughly dirtied, Elrond reports, “I am well. Thank you for your discretion and thoughtfulness.”

Maeglin nods and casts a quick look at Lindir that betrays both annoyance and regret. He waits a moment longer, but there’s nothing to say, and so he turns and practically stomps for the door, dark braid flying out behind him. He shuts the door behind himself, and only then does Lindir relax.

Elrond reaches for a glass. He takes a few sips before handing it to Lindir, who slips off of him for it—they both shuffle to sit up in bed. Now that they’re bonded, there’s little point distinguishing between their different cups, though Elrond imagines his formal assistant will still like to act ‘properly’ in public. For now, he swirls the drink around in his little hands, then looks up at Elrond to say, eyes pleading, “Please, do not be mad at Maeglin. He did nothing wrong.”

“He touched my omega,” Elrond notes with a slight smile, knowing that came after. Lindir quirks a shy grin in return, and Elrond sighs, “I admit I was troubled to find him in your bed. ...But you are correct that he did not overstep. He may have caused trouble, but I believe that is simply his fate rather than a malicious intention.”

“His fate?” Lindir repeats before taking another sip. 

“He has always been difficult. He has been here almost as long as the sons of Fëanor. But we will find someone for him eventually.” 

Lindir nods, then pauses and adds, “I am surprised at how quickly _I_ found someone here. I always knew that I wished for an alpha, yet I never felt the call, and then I come here, and... I wanted you instantly.”

Elrond might’ve been the same, although he’s more reserved. He does muse, “You are very well suited to Imladris, I think. You may have been born to Thranduil’s realm, but your gentle nature, your conservative countenance, is a better fit for my quiet halls.”

“ _Your_ halls,” Lindir hums. “A lord.” And he looks awe-struck all over again. He reaches across Elrond to replace the glass on the nightstand, then snuggles sheepishly into Elrond’s side, looking supremely pleased when he isn’t pushed away.

For a moment, neither moves, not even to eat—a bread-filled concoction that looks like it will hold reasonably well. Lindir hums a quiet tune, perhaps composing, and it makes Elrond think wistfully of laying out in the gardens to appreciate a song.

But they’re nowhere near presentable. And so Elrond finally forces himself to climb out of bed, immediately missing Lindir’s presence when the warmth leaves his side. He thinks of offering a hand, but instead figures he did Lindir’s body too much damage for walking, and so he scoops Lindir up in his arms to an instant squeal of delight. Lindir clutches onto Elrond’s shoulders, and Elrond carries him off to the washroom. Seeming to know the intent, Lindir asks, “Can I ride you in the tub?”

“You can do anything you like, my love,” Elrond answers, earning a radiant smile. 

Lindir murmurs again, “I love you,” and lifts up to kiss Elrond’s cheek. 

“And I love you as well.” But Elrond must first set Lindir on a chair, because a swan seems to have flown in through the balcony to occupy the tub.

It proves Lindir has somewhat fallen back down into normalcy, because as Elrond gently shoos the swan out of the washroom, Lindir shakes his head and sighs, “Unsanitary,” under his sweet breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Over, thanks for reading. ♥ Might do some spinoffs, [vote here on who if you wanna.](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/146581537895/tolkien-abo)


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